


A Quiet Love Is Better Than None

by cardinaleyes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, mormor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4941088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinaleyes/pseuds/cardinaleyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today is the funeral of Jim Moriarty, and Sebastian Moran is handling it even worse than he knew he would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. End of an Era

**Author's Note:**

> is, and will get even more, angsty.

It was a bigger turn out than expected. I mean, if you looked at it on the outside, the funeral of a high-class, business leader with associates all around the world, and, as the very man himself would say, a man with ‘a lot of fingers in a lot of pies’, a phone contact list longer than his arm, a man who could put you in touch with anyone and everyone, from your everyday local hitman to the most obscure, most wanted man in Asia, then yeah, you’d expect a bigger turn out. But look closer, fucking think about it. This _was_ a high-class business boss sure, a high-class business boss of crime, the most terrifying man in London, and, yeah I’m going to say it; the Napoleon of Crime. One look from this man, just one look, could cost you and your whole family’s lives, and it wouldn’t end there, it wouldn’t just end with the ceasement of your lives, but with the destruction of everything you’ve ever owned, ever wanted; everything and everyone you’ve ever connected yourself with. This man could literally wipe out entire decades of a person’s life with no question from anyone around him of moral or ethical issues. He could do that. Easy peasy. The list of phone contacts longer than his arm? Practically every single one of those was outgoing, an outgoing call from this man’s phone, and never incoming, no one ever rung him, ever. Well. Apart from Seb. This man was always the one to begin the process, to ‘get the ball rolling’, never you. Always him. Always James Moriarty. In fact if you even had his number you would be one of a very, very limited few. It took Seb weeks to get it, weeks and fucking weeks; at first given a temporary one that all Jim’s loyal pets received, only to be contacted in absolute emergencies at great inconvenience to Jim. When Jim finally gave Seb his number, it was almost as big as asking him to fucking marry him in the middle of Covent Gardens. Of course, Jim did it in his usual blasé and cool manner, acting like he did this every day, and Seb played along. And he was cautious at first, using the temporary number only when, like agreed, emergencies arose, which, with Seb on the job was very rare. An efficient and loyal pet indeed. And then slowly the emergency contact number transformed into Jim’s number, and then not so emergency calls began arising, and then not so emergency texts, and then, up to a few weeks ago, actually extremely explicit not so emergency texts. Jim didn’t play along at first. Too busy; in his work, and in his indignant feigning of uninterest in his sniper’s games. But he soon enjoyed the game. And the texts. And the follow up to Seb’s lazy ‘thinking about my cock in your mouth, Boss’ texts when he got home that night. After being teased all day, Jim was the one who did the fucking teasing when he got home that night. Yes, reading the head of a tangled and intricate crime web leader’s and his ex-army sniper’s texts would certainly be a marvel, and listening to the calls too; at cost of your head, of course. But not those last few calls. Missed calls on Jim’s phone, 7, from someone in the phonebook just marked as ‘SM’. Jim never had missed calls. These were the only ones logged. And he was rather too busy playing a different kind of game with a different kind of man on a rooftop to manage to find the time to call him back. His loyal sniper.

Anyway, to get one of those outgoing calls, to feel the irritating buzz of your phone in the inside of your cheap suit pocket, to pull it out expecting to see another associate’s number there and be greeted with… _him_. _His_ name. To be greeted with ‘J Moriarty’, well, nothing can strike fear right down the very core, the very being, the very existence of a man, quite like it. This man wasn’t someone you said hello to in passing, even if you’d worked with him, even if, God forbid, you dared call him internally an ‘associate’, to even suggest the notion that you and him were even beyond the level of loose acquaintances would, again, probably force him, much to his annoyance as it was _such_ an inconvenience, to do the whole…well you know…life wiped out thing we talked about before. The air around James Moriarty was heavy with intimidation and threat and danger, and anyone from the common passer-by to the head of any organisation Jim was involved in could sense than, and, if they valued remotely anything at all about their life, would keep their head down and erase his existence from their minds as soon as they were physically and mentally allowed to do so. So, again, bearing that in mind, it was a good turnout.

It was at St John’s church in South London. The funeral. There was some discussion among the people tentatively organising it whether it should be held in Ireland, but that was decided against. The cost and the hassle and the indiscreetness, and Jim never was really patriotic at the best of times. He hadn’t been back there in 15 years. The people second closest to Jim after Seb, that’s who were organising it. So, that being said, people really fucking not close to Jim Moriarty at all, but Seb refused to have anything to do with it. Well, almost anything. Just a few of his other hitmen, his other snipers, who did the jobs Jim considered too boring even for Seb, and that was saying something, because Jim just _loved_ to bore Seb out of that pretty little head of his. But it was just them, they were organising the funeral, not with a compassionate and sorrowful air as if it was a dear loved one, but a careful and almost mistrusting air, delicate to get things right, still in fear of their deceased Boss, like somehow he’d rise from the grave like Lazarus and have a fucking moan and execution about the wreath he’d got. But things didn’t need to be perfect, didn’t need to be flawless, they just needed to be…good. Nice. Ordinary.

Friday morning, 28th September, 11am. There’d be no wake. There’s no need. When half of the room milling about clutching at small talk, as well as appetisers, are sworn to such secrets as Jim’s contacts were, there’d be really nothing to say without risk of, shall we say, ‘putting one’s foot in it’. There was still an air of apprehension around everyone, an air of ‘tread lightly and tread carefully’, and while the saying ‘speak not ill of the dead’ floats limply in the air, the fear of speaking ill of Jim Moriarty was a much stronger incentive to hold back on any conversation of the web or the secrets or the stories he’d left behind. Amazing. This man was still as controlling and manipulative under the grave as he was when he himself was putting people in theirs. So no wake, no risk of being involved in any theatricality Jim Moriarty maybe had up his deceased sleeve. Just the service, and then home. To comforting fireplaces. To wives. To dinners ready on plates. To a world far away from Jim Moriarty’s, a world mankind would never quite see the likes of ever again. Sad really. He really was one of a kind. Though that’s not why people turned up. To wave him off, one last goodbye of a ‘one of a kind’. No. They turned up because they felt like they had to. Somehow still contractually obliged to, still contractually tied to Jim Moriarty. Because the weight of his black-eyed glare still watched over them in their slumber, in their consciousness, and in everything else in between, and half of the attendees at the church this morning were there to rid themselves of it once and for all, to put Jim, and his stare finally to rest. The other half; to ensure he really was dead and gone. To finally, after all these months, have some peace of mind that they were safe from the criminal psychopath that once ruled London. Either way, every single attendee at the church on this cold, Autumn morning, with frost on the ground and frost in people’s hearts, were there to watch the body of James Moriarty, consulting criminal, be lowered into the rock-hard ground; it’s final resting place. And ensured it stayed there. Well. Every single attendee but one. There was one person going to the church this morning not at all content to sit back quietly as the hymns were briskly sung and the ashes quickly scattered onto a meaningless piece of wood containing…everything. Absolutely everything. To Sebastian Moran that is, that box wasn’t the end of an era, the end of a tyrannical rage of checking your back doors and windows were locked and constantly looking over your shoulder. This box contained everything. Everything. And no one expected him to turn up at the funeral. Very few people even knew about him. But he was going alright. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.


	2. The Coffin

Very few people sat together because they knew each other. No one hung around the outside of the church. Pretty much every single person arrived exactly 5 minutes before the service was meant to start. An air of ‘let’s-get-this-over-with’, as well as ‘is-a-red-rifle-dot-about-to-land-on-someone’s-skull’ surrounded the church, tension pressed against the cool glass panes with its intricate scenes, the numbing cold air made it difficult to breathe, the silence apart from a few cleared throats and the scuffle of awkward feet was suffocating. No one removed their coats. This was pure, hard, cold, clean business to them. And yet the atmosphere of primary school on the first day still lay in the hearts of the men. Not one woman. All men. Jim Moriarty’s relationship with women, before Seb that is, were…fleeting, to say the least. And while it’s safe to say he made an impression on every single last one of them, not the sort of compassionate impression to incline them to attend his funeral. But they all remembered him. Who could forget Jim Moriarty. 10:59. This fact escaped not one single attendee; the congregation was almost harmonious in its synchronised checking of the watch every 30 seconds; another 30 seconds closer to the end of this madness. ‘What the fuck are we doing’, I’m sure, stung the minds of these businessmen, so sure of themselves until they came anywhere near this madman of colossal standards.

The doors at the back open. This is weird. Really fucking weird. The music’s started. It’s not Staying Alive, of course, it’s just a hymn, no one knows what hymn, it’s just an average hymn for an average man. And this is really fucking weird. His coffin’s a dark coloured wood. Darker than usual. If there is a usual in the colour of coffins. Its smooth, it’s shining, it’s glossy and it’s a wonder its not slipping out of the hands of the six men who carry it, with faces that would be emotionless if it wasn’t for the nerves and the apprehension and the need to check behind them to make sure their boss isn’t there, that it isn’t all a trick. It’s nice. It’s a nice coffin. Looks expensive. It looks dark. Such a dark brown it’s reminiscent of the uneasy feeling of, if one was ever so privileged, which very few people in this room were, of staring into the abyss of Jim Moriarty’s eyes, and feeling them hypnotise and overwhelm you until you were agreeing to things you didn’t know anymore, _saying_ things you couldn’t hear anymore, just to please him, to make him avert his eyes. But yes. A simple, expensive, dark coffin, with a blood red wreath near the head of it. Fucking hell. Who chose red. Who the fuck chose red. And it’s making its way down the aisle, it’s halfway there now, and it’s surreal because this… _thing_ …this _box_ …contains the very body so few have been privileged to touch, to gaze upon, to speak with, but it’s right there. Shielded by only a few planks of waxed wood is the very same Jim Moriarty one would do anything, and I mean to the levels of ‘emigrate to China’ anything, to avoid. And if one wanted, you could just reach out and…touch it. So easy, after all this time, so easy. It should have dehumanised Jim Moriarty, depersonalised him and demoralised him, it should have humiliated him to have these men regard him in such a low and such a tedious state. But it didn’t. It added to his air of superiority, his flaunt, his confidence that he _was,_ in fact, Ruler, King of everyone in this room. Because no one was looking at the box which contained his almost spiritual body. All eyes were awkwardly fixed on the floor, as the body rose above them on the shoulders of the six men – physically, and metaphorically speaking, Jim Moriarty was still on top. And as his coffin glided over the heads of his associates, everyone in the room was reminded of this cold, hard fact. Yet again made aware they had been defeated by a dead man.

 _The box_ was getting to the front few rows now when the back doors opened again. Imagine the poor horror the sound struck to the very core of the six coffin bearers, just six of Jim’s workers, his pets, his closest ones, and therefore no one really close at all. The sound of the doors behind you opening, paralysed and unable to look due to the weight of the most terrifying man in England on your very shoulders, while the eyes of every other man in the room, all around you, turn to stare, turn to gape; and you can’t. Imagine the first few sounds of heavy boots on the quiet polished floors, the echo they create, the buzz of activity in the heads of the congregation as they work out what was fucking going on; you can almost hear the metaphorical clogs turning. Imagine hearing no one speak, the silence, the goggle-eyed awe, nothing but the sound of boots on wood and the inability to turn round and surely, surely it can’t be _him_ , he doesn’t wear boots, ever, surely, _rationally_ , it _couldn’t_ be _him_. He was there, he was above you, he was _dead_ for Christ sake, just keep walking, all six of you just keep fucking going, don’t let anything go wrong for fucks sake.

“Don’t mind me boys. You keep walking him down that aisle”. It wasn’t Jim’s voice. And then it didn’t matter, as long as it wasn’t Jim’s voice, it really didn’t matter. It was the slurred and deep voice of a tall, well-built man, wearing a plain short-sleeved black top, khaki army pants, and heavy biker boots. Everyone had seen his face as he walked in, everyone but the coffin bearers. No one missed the streak of undeniable and almost heart-breaking emotion flitting across his face as he encountered the coffin for the very first time, a mere few metres away, as his body shuddered and struggled to register what was before him. The stare. He didn’t take his eyes off it. The coffin. The swallow of saliva that wasn’t there, a dry throat; trying to make sense of something. The look of anger that seemed to have burned itself for so long in his eyes that it was almost out now, the slight glisten of tears that overcame him seeming only wanting to lend a helping hand. And then the glance about, the realisation it wasn’t just him and the coffin as he had only previously had eyes for. There was other people in the room. “Don’t mind me boys. You keep walking him down that aisle.” A gulp of the Jack Daniels planted firmly in his sweaty fist like a baby’s bottle, before stopping his heavy boots on the wood and sitting just a few rows from the back, so no one was behind him. So he could see everything. The show that was about to unfold in front of him, that _surely Jim, surely, please fucking stop this, cannot be real_.


End file.
